Christmas in July

Common knowledge: when it’s hot outside, you’ll find all sorts scrambling for shelter in the strangest places. You’ll find the bum from a few blocks down sitting at the bar a mere two stools away from that gorgeous young mother who runs past my bistro every day during the morning inventory check. He’s closer than he ever dreamed he’d get and he’s so jarred by her proximity that you can see his hands shake as they clasp his beer bottle. She’ll never notice him, even though she’s run past him every morning for the last three years.

Today is one of those unbearably hot July days when the roaches scramble out of the floorboards in search of cooler ground. My guys in the kitchen are already uncomfortable, even before the lunchtime rush. I whisper a silent prayer, begging that the central cooling doesn’t conk out today.

It’s noon when the first gaggle comes in, looking for a cool escape and quick refreshments. Now, the bistro is a pretty pricey establishment, but on days like this people are willing to pay more than they should for a breath of cool air and freshly cut basilica. I take their orders and turn to seat the man who just strolled in. I’ve seen him before and know his type well. He’s wearing an obviously expensive beige tailored suit with Italian loafers and a loud tie. He pulls out a cigar and clips it on my pristine floor. This is not going to be a pleasant experience for either of us, I can tell you that.

“Good day, sir and welcome to the Piazza Napolitano, how may I…”

“Give me the table at the back,” he cuts me off without giving me a second glance. Two can play that game.

“That table is not available sir; allow me to seat you by the window.” Surprisingly, he doesn’t put up a fight and follows me as he puffs away at his cigar. I hand him a menu and bring him his drink. Followed by another and another.

An hour’s worth of drinks passes with no appetizer and no entrée ordered. The owner looks at me to say lets get this guy moving; there are hungrier people to seat. It is hot with the room nearing full capacity. The collective body heat is not helping. But this guy hasn’t even broken into a glow even with all the drinking and the suit. Finally, he summons me over.

“Waiter, do you know what this is?” He pulls out another cigar and lets me look at the ring.

“It is a Romeo y Julieta, sir. A fine Cuban cigar. Exquisite choice.” This guy is not just playing rich.

“Do you know what that means?” He continues before I can think of a response. “It means I enjoy life and can afford its finer things. I am loaded and I know what’s good.”

This man is a lighter weight than his girth portrays. The heat is getting to him.

“But y’know something? Sometimes it isn’t as easy as it seems, this high life thing. I mean, take a day like this doozy as an example. You look around you as you sit back in your nice air-conditioned car, with the chauffer and the tinted windows and you wonder what made those poor schmucks outside sweltering their eyes out of their skulls while waiting for their bus any different to you. Why’d they get the shitty hand and I get the royal flush?”

He looks out the window and points to a homeless man sitting on the curb across the street.

“I mean, look at that guy in the beat up shirt and the stained pants. That man’s walking around with a hole in his shirt. A hole in our day and age, when the guy sitting across from you is a billionaire. What makes the billionaire any better? Why him and not stained shirt guy?”

The restaurant gets quieter as people turn to see who is yelling. I stand still with my mouth ajar. I’ve dealt with my fair share of drunks in this business, but I’m stunned by this sudden outburst.

“And to top it all off, not only does the billionaire here have to wonder about all this shit I’m relaying to you right now, all this existential crap I’m spewing; he further has to feel guilty and responsible for all the disparity and destitution in the world. He has to feel like he owes them something. Damn Rich Man’s Burden.”

He shakes his head and pauses a beat before closing with a ringer:

“Poor bastards.”

I say the one thing that might soothe him.

“May I interest you in the specials, sir?”

“No. Get me the check.”

He pays his bill and walks out. As I clear his table I notice the second cigar lying under the napkin.

You see all sorts in the bussing tables business. You see even more on a hot day. At least this one ended with a free Cuban. I’ll take one of those any day if it means Christmas in July.